


Storm Clouds

by sweeterthankarma



Category: Euphoria (TV 2019)
Genre: Depression, Family Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Mental Health Issues, Post-Episode: S1E4: Shook Ones Pt. II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25437859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthankarma/pseuds/sweeterthankarma
Summary: “Gia should know better because of you.”Rue could have guessed an answer like that, seen it coming from a mile away. It still stings though.
Relationships: Gia Bennett & Leslie Bennett, Gia Bennett & Rue Bennett, Leslie Bennett & Rue Bennett
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	Storm Clouds

Rue senses the tension before she even steps foot into her house. It’s become a gritty sort of sixth sense she’s found herself un-masterfully possessing, a way of knowing preemptively that fucked up shit is coming to a head and going to explode around her. Usually it’s her fucked up shit, so there’s no doubt in her mind that the screaming match that’ll undoubtedly unfold will be directed at her, like storm clouds unloading chunks of hail and fat droplets of rain. Rue is used to it, so used to it by now, and that should make her sad. Her heartbeat should quicken, her palms should sweat, but instead she just heaves a breath and pushes open the door, ready to get whatever’s happening over with. 

(It’s her fault, of course. It’s never not her fault.)

“You knew,” her mother Leslie says by way of greeting, and the two words are angry, disappointed, almost demanding, though Rue doesn’t know what for. Rue gives her a blank look with just the slightest tilt of her head, and then braces herself, fisting her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. 

Her dad’s hoodie. The only thing she really has left of him. And of course that’s not really true; there’s more clothes and trinkets and books and his car still sits idle in the garage, collecting dust. But this, his hoodie, seems like the best thing left, the closest thing to the real him. It’s the only remnant that now belongs to both him and to her and not to anyone else, and certainly not to the grief that encompasses a house that used to hold a family.

“About Gia,” Leslie elaborates, still talking like Rue should immediately know what she’s pissed about. (She always seems to be pissed lately. Rue can’t blame her, she sort of is too. There’s a lot of valid things to be pissed about, if she’s honest. Like how Trump is president and her bike got a flat tire and Jules skipped out on school today, probably to hang out with Tyler or whoever the fuck she’s now in love with, and so Rue had to take the bus, sit in the back seat that reeks of vodka, not even the good kind. Definitely Everclear, stained across the grimy floor, cheap and basically one ingredient removed from hand sanitizer. The worst. She still drinks it sometimes, though, if it’s all there is.) 

“How she’s been smoking  _ pot,”  _ Leslie explains, spitting out the final word like she’s talking to a ten year old and not someone so advanced in the drug world that weed barely makes her feel a thing, or at least not feel enough. Oxycodone was an issue in the barriers of her bedroom a mere month ago, for fuck’s sake— and shit, it still is, unbeknownst to her mother— so Rue could almost laugh at the way the veins in Leslie’s neck are tensed, strained, stressed at the mention of a little marijuana.

Rue doesn’t laugh, though. (She hasn’t laughed much lately. Come to think of it, she can’t remember the last time she did. Actually, no, yes she does: the other day with Jules. Always with Jules.) Rue knows why her mother feels this way. And she gets it, she really does, even as she scoffs and leans against the wall, propping her left ankle around her opposite leg while she waits for the long-winded spiel falling out of Leslie’s mouth to end. 

It goes on and on. It’s boring. They’ve been through so many arguments so many times that this just feels normal, like another daily routine added to the list of priorities and responsibilities, most that don’t even get checked off by the time the sun sets. Rue stays silent, almost zoning out as Leslie’s words go into her ears and don’t make it any further. (She’s thinking about whether or not she has enough money for coke this weekend or if she can bump some off Fez or maybe Maddy. She knows she shouldn’t, she’s trying to get clean, but still. It’s a consideration.) Only when Leslie steps closer does Rue actually pay attention, refocus her gaze, and then recognize the expectant look in her mother’s dark, tired eyes. Rue is supposed to have an answer for her, yet she didn’t hear the question.

“Why do you think Gia did it?” Rue says, deciding to just say what she feels, what she means. She’s long past the point of being polite in this house, even though she knows she should. She’s fucking tired, too. She’s sure the bags under her own eyes are nearly pitch black by now. “She has a fuck-up drug addict sister who’s barely three years older than her, obviously she might get a little interested in what led her down that road to such obvious bliss.”

It’s meant to be sarcastic, self-deprecating, maybe a bit of a subconscious cry for help (because a part of Rue really just wants everyone— or no, just _anyone,_ a single solitary person— to know how badly she’s suffering, how much she wants it all to stop even if she won’t do anything to remedy it herself. Maybe she just doesn’t have the strength. Maybe she doesn’t care enough.) 

Leslie doesn’t buy it.  It doesn’t surprise Rue.

“Gia should know better because of you.”

Rue could have guessed an answer like that, seen it coming from a mile away. It still stings though.

Rue lets out a breath. It’s almost a scoff. This is a battle she’ll never win; it’s not even one she wants to win. (She isn’t sure if there are any battles she wants to win anymore. She thinks her white flags may have been waving for months now, maybe even years, and she’s too deep in the trenches to even see it herself.)

“You’re her parent,” Rue says, and it’s not a dig. It’s not a retort, not a defense. It’s just true.

“You’re her role model!” Leslie practically cries out, the long-awaited anger finally reaching a hilt, and the sharpness of her tone stops Rue in her tracks on her trudge towards her bedroom. “Can’t you see that?”

“Too bad for her,” Rue replies, and she wishes there was more emotion in her voice. She knows there should be more. She says it again, low under her breath, trying, willing herself to be more emphatic. It doesn’t work. 

“Rue,” Leslie starts, but she doesn’t let her get any further.

“I’m not in charge of her, I’m barely even in charge of myself,” Rue says, and it’s resolute. Final. Another statement that’s just true. Bleakly, awfully true. 

Her mother leaves her alone for the rest of the night after that. Gia does too. (Rue’s sure she overheard the whole thing.) Rue isn’t sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please let me know! Comments and kudos make my day. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr [here](https://sweeterthankarma.tumblr.com/).


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